


But Maybe We Are

by Defying_Expectations



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Co-Parenting, Co-Parents, Dark Comedy, Drama & Romance, F/F, Femslash, Missing Moments, Missing Scene, Motherhood, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, Pining, Romance, Sexual Tension, Stolen Moments, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28184160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defying_Expectations/pseuds/Defying_Expectations
Summary: "You may not be strong enough, but maybe we are." ~ Emma Swan to Regina Mills, episode 2x20A collection of unrelated oneshots about Emma and Regina. All of these stories are designed to fit into canon while simultaneously "fixing" events in the show. Swan Queen.Excerpt from the most recent oneshot:"Emma’s eyes sweep over Regina’s features, as if trying to find an answer in the planes of her face. Regina belatedly realizes that she’s seated herself far too close to Emma – she should not be able to feel the press of Emma’s thigh against her own, or smell Emma’s dry shampoo coupled with something like nutmeg – but her mother’s voice roils through her head again, demanding that Regina never show weakness. So instead of scooting away as she longs to, Regina makes herself as calmly rooted to the spot as the very tree she sits upon."
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Emma Swan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	1. Unwanted Tastes

**Author's Note:**

> So, just to be clear: this is going to be a collection of unconnected Swan Queen "missing moments." By missing moments, I mean either things that we know did happen canonically but didn't see on the show (like this one-shot you're about to read), or things that we weren't told happened but could have (like the one-shot I'm working on now, which is about a night in Neverland when both Emma and Regina have insomnia).
> 
> If you have a particular Swan Queen missing moment that you'd like to see me try my hand at, please do let me know! As a general note, I do want to keep this collection T rated . . . so, while I will write sex scenes, I would suggest that you send your dirtier requests to someone else. 😉 Other than that, bring on the prompts!

_"You may not be strong enough, but maybe we are." ~ Emma Swan to Regina Mills, episode 2x20_

* * *

Story #1: "Unwanted Tastes"

Takes place between episodes 2x9 and 2x10, shortly after Emma and Mary Margaret return from Fairy Tale Land.

* * *

Emma wants nothing more than to enjoy this evening. To bask in the happy glow of the crowd at Granny's, all of them so delighted to welcome Mary Margaret back to Storybrooke – delighted to welcome Emma back, too, despite how she still feels like something of an intruder in this newly-awakened-but-still-long-standing community. To regale everyone with tales of their recent adventures in Fairy Tale Land, excitedly cutting Mary Margaret off to chime in extra details. To sink her teeth into the amazing mess of her double bacon cheeseburger, deliciating in the taste of that marbled beef, so unlike the toughened hide of the chimera she'd dined on all too recently. To cherish hew newly reunited family: the warmth of her son cozied against her side in the vinyl booth, the smiles flashed between her parents. How she can reach out whenever she wants and ruffle Henry's hair rather than merely fighting against the itch in her fingers.

Emma wants nothing more than to enjoy this evening, and she does enjoy it – but not as much as she should. Not as much as she longs to.

As she and Snow talk over one another in their eagerness to recount their final scrimmage with Cora, it's not the sorceress Emma sees, but Regina standing at a distance from everyone in Gold's shop just an hour ago, a distance that only grew as they all left for Granny's and Regina remained behind. As Emma acts out the fight she'd had with Hook, Henry's 'sword-bottle' of ketchup batting against her mustard, she remembers how Regina had held onto Henry's fingers even as he pulled away, how she had stretched out her arm to sustain the contact as long as possible, before letting her arm fall to her side.

As she listens to David recount the challenges Storybrooke faced in their absence, Emma finds herself replaying her brief interaction earlier today with Regina, just after Emma emerged from the well and Regina picked herself off the ground. Emma's understanding of what happened just before that – why Regina had been on the ground in the first place – was murky, but Henry said that Regina had saved them. And as hard as it was to believe that the task of saving Snow White and her daughter had convinced the Evil Queen to roll around in the dirt and muck up her pristine suit, Emma knew that Henry told the truth. Knew by Regina's unusually shrunken posture, her shoulders hunched and spine curled. Knew by the way Regina's eyes darted to Emma's side, where Henry had glued himself, with only sadness, absent of the usual fire. So Emma offered their savior a sincere "thank you," and Regina, in turn, gave her a "you're welcome."

And then Emma hovered, eyes attached to Regina even as her arms remained attached to their son. _Thank you_ felt inadequate for saving not only her life, but her mother's . . . a mother who Emma still found strange to think of as such, _her mother_ , this woman she'd imagined a thousand different ways throughout her childhood, though never as someone her age, not to mention a real-life-fairy-tale-princess-action-figure . . . but the fathomless devotion that Mary Margaret had shown her time and again in the Enchanted Forest left no doubts in Emma's mind: _this was her mother_.

Emma had never had that kind of unconditional love before. And it struck Emma in that moment – as she stared into Regina's eyes and noticed how alike they were to Cora's – that even though Cora had been physically there for Regina, Regina had grown up without that kind of motherly love, too.

Emma gripped Henry tighter against her. No wonder both she and Regina struggled to excel now at giving that same kind of love to Henry, despite how fiercely they wanted to.

That didn't seem like the kind of thing she should express aloud, so instead Emma offered, "Um – your mom – she's uh – she's a piece of work – you know?"

"Indeed I do," said Regina. Then the ghost of a smile crossed her face. "Welcome back." The half-smile vanished as soon as the words fled her mouth, as if she had not meant to actually smile – or perhaps had forgotten how.

With each French fry that Emma eats that night at Granny's, each one tastes like a long-withheld delicacy of crisp, salted goodness – but she tastes some other seasoning with each bite, too . . . pity, maybe, or guilt.

Whatever the taste, Emma does not like it.

But the taste lingers all evening, and whatever exactly it is, she knows how she must get rid of it.

And so, when dinner is long over – when Henry is safely tucked in her bed, and when David and Mary Margaret are happily ensconced on the couch – Emma lets her parents know that she's going out for a drive, just to clear her head. This isn't an _untruth_ , but it's also probably a good thing that her parents don't have her superpower and catch her in the lie.

Emma hops in the shower before she goes. She sticks her face right into the spray, warm rivulets of water running down her cheeks. God, what a difference a hot shower – replete with conditioner and a razor – makes. Nothing like when she had to plunge her whole body into the icy rivers of Fairy Tale Land, scrubbing herself as hastily as she could with shivering fingers, paranoid all the while that someone would see her naked. And then, even after she'd washed, she'd have to get right back into her dirty clothes, because of course there'd been no opportunity to pack fresh garments before getting sucked into that damn portal . . .

Emma knows that she probably could have just gone right to Regina's home without a shower _or_ change of clothes. She has, after all, just sat through a whole celebratory meal without either, and unless the inhabitants of Storybrooke have suddenly become very good at concealing their true feelings (doubtful), her river-bathing over the last few weeks has at least staved off body odor. But Emma somehow feels it would be impertinent to visit Mayor Mills's estate in such a rumpled, semi-unwashed state.

Things that she once took for granted feel luxurious tonight: clean underwear, a shirt that hasn't had its armholes repeatedly dampened with sweat, jeans free of dirt and grass stains. She wants to complete her ensemble with her red leather jacket, but honestly, the thing needs a good dry cleaning before it gets another wearing. So she opts instead for her tan leather coat, the one that's aging badly around the shoulders and fringes.

Emma enjoys the rumbling reunion with her old yellow bug even as knots form inside her stomach. Apologizing has never been something she's excelled at. She smooths her hands over the steering wheel, trying to sooth herself with the repetitive gesture, as she journeys down the familiar darkened streets. Apologies involve so many raw emotions that she isn't good at dealing with in the first place. And then on top of the emotions, she has to figure out how to compress them into some string of syllables inadequate to express the tightening of her heart, the heaviness in her gut. Or, tonight, the taste of _something_ lurking in her fillings, even though she brushed her teeth before heading out, too.

She parks just to the side of Regina's gate, car obscured from the house's view by the foliage. Maybe she should have called first? She twists locks of her damp hair around her finger as she gazes up at the mansion. It's only a quarter to nine – not so late, but rather after-hours for an unannounced visit. But if she had called, Regina would have told her not to come. _"You don't need to make me your charity case, Miss Swan,"_ Emma can practically hear Regina drawling. And then Emma would've had to stay awake with this fucking awful taste all night, her teeth unable to stop gnawing at the unwanted flavor on her tongue and cheeks, even when her cheeks began to develop sores and her tongue tinge with blood . . .

No. Emma untangles her fingers from her hair and splays them flat at her sides as she marches up the walkway. Everything is going to be fine. She wipes her damp fingers against her jeans before rapping on the door.

Regina opens the door, one eyebrow raising. Her eyes flick over Emma's face, then to a spot left of Emma's shoulder. It's not until Regina has turned her gaze back to Emma, mouth thin and unamused, that Emma understands: Regina was hoping against hope to find Henry standing beside Emma, buried against his birth mother's side as he has been most of the afternoon and evening. Ready to return for the night to his other mother's home. The mother who has actually raised and loved and just fucking been there for him.

The sour taste in Emma's mouth creeps down her throat even as she berates herself for it – she has just as much of a right as Regina to have her son over for the night. More, currently, given that Henry actually _wants_ to be with her in a way he does not with Regina. Still, the vile flavor inches down, down, down, and Emma finds herself resisting the urge to spit. Hacking phlegm all over the polished doorstep is certainly not the way into the Evil Queen's good graces.

Emma swallows her spit and wonders from the way Regina's staring if the gulping of saliva was audible to both of them. Hoping her blush doesn't show beneath the yellow porch light, Emma offers a sheepish grin. "Hi."

"Good evening," says Regina with an overflow of courteousness. "How can I help?"

The words might be sarcastic, but Emma suspects that Regina's so unaccustomed to having her tone inflected with genuine politeness that she's overshot it. Regina's eyes are wide and vacant of the usual gleam that accompanies her sardonic barbs. Vacant of most any emotion save for exhaustion.

"Miss Swan?" Regina raises her eyebrows. "Did you forget how to inhabit your own body?"

Emma shakes herself from her stupor. "I'm uhm. No. I know it's late and all, but I was hoping to come in."

Regina swipes two fingers along the shadowed skin beneath her eyes. "I suppose 'good people' allow uninvited guests over at all hours of the night?"

This time, Emma's pretty sure it's botha genuine question _and_ a sarcastic barb. "I don't know if not allowing me in is a good or bad trait. But I won't tattle on you either way. And, if you let me in, I'll owe you a drink."

"I am more than capable of paying for my own drinks," purrs Regina, but she nonetheless allows Emma to pass through the doorway.

The air in the mansion is thick, as always, with the redolence of overly crisp winds and pine trees – the cloying, artificial kind that can only be found in packaged aerosols. But the usual chill of the high ceilings has been replaced with a toasty warmth, and delicious hints of fresh dough and cinnamon pepper the house's perfume.

"The apple pie will be ready in ten minutes," Regina offers by way of an explanation. "Would you like to stay for a slice?"

Emma's eyebrows shoot up nearly to her hairline.

As if invading Emma's thoughts, Regina rolls her eyes. "Do you really think I'm dense enough to try and poison you a second time?"

"Do you really think you want me to answer that question?" asks Emma in return.

Regina plants her hands on her hips. "You can think what you like of me, Miss Swan, but I am not foolish enough to attempt the same scheme twice." A smile lights her face. "Nor am I so uncreative."

Emma's lips twitch, wanting to mimic the smile. Instead, she beats her mouth into a frown. "Isn't 'attempting the same scheme' what you did in offering me the exact poisoned apple you used on my mom?"

Regina tilts her head to one side and gives it a single, pitying shake. "Same tool, entirely new method."

"I'm not eating your pie," says Emma.

Regina's hands lower to her sides, knuckles cracking. Emma expects the mayor to take a defense step towards her, but instead Regina retreats to the kitchen.

"There's no need to be so hostile," Regina calls over her shoulder. "You are the one who decided to arrive unannounced at my home – and despite this uncouth behavior, I am still trying to be a good hostess."

Redness crawls into Emma's cheeks before she can stop it. Regina isn't wrong, of course. Emma's shown up to apologize and has so far gotten way off track – the way she often seems to get with this infuriating woman.

Emma untucks her damp hair from behind her ears to conceal her blush before following Regina into the kitchen. Regina is uncorking a bottle of wine at the kitchen island, so Emma positions herself at the opposite end of the counter.

Regina spares Emma one quick glance that conveys both contempt and indifference to Emma's continued presence in her home. The cooling apple pie sits in-between them, wafting teasing fumes in Emma's direction.

"So, poisoning aside, you like to bake?" Emma asks, then hides a wince. Is she really so eager to avoid this apology that she's resorting to small talk with the Evil Queen?

But when Regina looks up again at Emma, her expression is no longer akin to disdainful apathy. She liberates the wine from its cork and then inclines her head towards the bottle. Emma nods, accepting the wordless offer. Regina retrieves two wine glasses and pours two perfectly portioned four ounce servings. Or, at least, what looks like perfectly portioned servings to Emma's untrained eye. She wonders if Regina ever briefly entertained the idea of being the town's bartender rather than mayor.

"I don't know if I would say that I 'like' baking," says Regina. "But it's something to do other than drinking myself into a coma."

Emma isn't sure whether she's supposed to laugh or not – the words themselves make her want to giggle, but Regina's flat tone makes her want to do anything but.

"Has that happened before?" Emma asks, with the same dry inflection.

Regina passes her a wine glass. "To your mother, it has."

This time Emma lets loose a quick bark of laughter without pausing to consider if she should. "Never thought I'd hear the Evil Queen crack a 'your mom' joke."

One corner of Regina's mouth quirks upward. "Just don't tell Henry."

"You sure?" Emma asks. "I think it'd raise your street cred in his eyes."

"I think it'd embarrass him past the point of no return."

But the possible dark truth beneath the joke lingers in Emma's mind as they clink glasses together before taking their first sips. If not for her baking, would Regina be drinking herself into oblivion? Will she still later tonight, alone in this huge empty house? Henry's listed off probably all of Regina's faults to Emma at this point, but traits that could indicate alcoholism – poor driving, nausea spells, too much late night television – haven't made the list.

But isolation can drive people to do new, desperate things, Emma thinks as she watches Regina take another sip . . . and with Regina's new resolve not to hurt others being stronger than possibly ever before . . . maybe instead she'll turn to hurting herself . . .

Emma twines her fingers around the damp ends of her hair. _Sorry. Say you're sorry_. But simply saying the word won't do – she'll have to elaborate, get into all those sticky feelings she hates having to wrestle with even with people she likes. And with people like Regina . . . Emma's fingers wrap tighter around her hair, cutting off her circulation . . . well, there's no one quite like Regina. No one else who sets Emma's teeth on edge for such a myriad of reasons: from her superior indifference; to her possessiveness over Henry; to the way she casts aside people in the most ruthless manner when they stand in the way of what she wants; to her unwavering loyalty and tenacity even when everyone she knows, including her own son, has thrown her aside and trampled upon her like a discarded candy wrapper . . .

The timer on the oven beeps, jarring Emma from this reverie. She unwinds her fingers from their hair-nooses. Her hands tingle as the blood in her veins rushes to fill those empty spaces.

"Pie's finished resting," Regina explains as she turns off the oven timer. "So I suppose, if you are so inclined, that you can continue staring aimlessly around my home while I sample a slice."

"Do you have Cool Whip?" Emma finds herself replying.

Their eyes meet over the pie.

"I have vanilla ice cream," says Regina.

"That'll do," says Emma. "If the offer for a slice is still on the table, I mean."

Regina's lips find their way into a smirk. "Though it is tempting to retract the offer now that you are interested, denying someone fresh homemade desserts is a level of evil not even I would stoop to."

"Glad to know there are limits," says Emma.

Regina retrieves two small plates from one of the upper cabinets and plucks two forks from the silverware drawer. Emma fists her hands inside her jacket pockets, even though her fingers are already warm inside the toasty kitchen. She wants to help, but senses that to help would be to claim familiarity of this space within Regina's domain. To suddenly assert ownership of Regina's house as she has already done so recently with their son. To leave Regina, standing alone as she did in Gold's shop, in what had once been her domain and now was not her anything, her hand stretched out adrift towards a son who had long left her arms, her feet rooted and her eyes lost . . .

"You should come to dinner tomorrow night," Emma blurts out.

Regina, midway through sinking a knife into the pie, freezes. Emma freezes too. Remains frozen as Regina's eyes cut to Emma's, narrowed and searching.

Emma unhunches her shoulders and removes her hands from her pockets in an attempt to display relaxed sincerity. Regina returns her gaze to her pie and resumes pressing her blade through the crust – although whether this is because Emma succeeds in her display, or because Regina is putting on a display of her own, Emma's not sure.

"Yeah," confirms Emma, nodding, as if Regina had asked her to repeat herself. "We're having a potluck. All of us. I mean, you know, the town. Over at Granny's. I'm making tacos."

Emma remains standing, remains breathing, letting her fingers tap out a random rhythm against the kitchen island. Trying to project a calm she does not feel. So. Okay. She's jumped impulsively into this potluck with both feet. No big deal. No one ever has to know.

She'll present the idea tomorrow morning to her family as if she's given it tons of thought. Let word filter naturally through the day, as it does so easily in this close-knit town.

And she'll find someone she knows will confirm her rash decision to invite Regina as something that isn't rash at all. Dr. Hopper, perhaps. Not only is he one of the most respected authority voices in Storybrooke, but he is, like Henry, a perennial optimist. He will bolster her up with all sorts of feel-good, therapist-like aphorisms about how Regina is striving to change for the better. Tell Emma that it's a great idea to encourage Regina's changes, offer her some positive reinforcement, by extending her this dinner invite.

Then no one will ever know how Emma's panicked impulsivity caused her to invite the Evil Queen to a dinner party that technically didn't exist when the invite was made. Then Regina will never know how deeply she affects Emma in ways that Emma doesn't like and can't explain.

Regina eases one slice of pie onto a plate, then a second. Even through the haze of dwindling panic, Emma finds herself admiring how evenly cut and in-tact each slice is. Emma's never managed to figure out how to cut that first slice of pie without having those careful layers entirely deconstruct by the time the slice makes its way onto a plate.

"I didn't know that you cooked," says Regina. She wipes the flat edge of the blade against the plates, creating a tiny mess of crumbs and smeared fruit filling beside the perfectly cut slices, to ensure that none of the pie's tastiness is wasted upon the dishwasher.

Emma can tell that this statement is not really what Regina is thinking about. Emma knows that Regina, like her, prefers to keep her attention upon others to avoid the harsh spotlight of her own self-criticism.

"Tacos barely qualify as cooking," says Emma. "Cut some peppers, brown some meat, layer it all together with some other delicious crap, and voila."

"'Delicious crap,'" Regina echoes. "As always, you have a way of making things that are normally enjoyable become completely unappetizing."

Regina scoops a not ungenerous portion of ice cream onto each plate. Emma finds herself wondering if Regina will hate to see the ice cream coating the spoon go to waste too – if Regina will peek her tongue out from between crimson lips to lick away the sheen of ice cream, the delicate pink muscle traveling carefully along the metal curve – but Regina puts the spoon right in the dishwasher, sheen of ice cream and all.

Emma shakes herself back to reality. "Don't knock 'em 'til you try 'em."

Regina sets one of the plates in front of Emma, along with a fork. Emma inhales the scent of sugared dough and cinnamoned apples as she slices off a corner as gently as she can, eager not to scrape the utensil against her plate.

As she frees a mouthful and fits it onto her fork, she finds herself hesitating again, eyeing Regina out of her peripheral vision. It _probably_ isn't poison – but if it is, and if she falls into some sort of curse alone inside Regina's house . . . it could take days, weeks even, before she's discovered . . .

Regina snags Emma's eyes with her own. Raises a forkful of her own pie in a salute both mocking and sincere. "Likewise, Miss Swan."

Then Regina slides the fork into her mouth. Her lips pucker around the treat as she withdraws the utensil. A dot of ice cream finds its way onto her lower lip. A tiny cloud in a landscape of smooth blood.

Fighting against the scarlet blush threatening to yet again attack her face, Emma shoves her gaze back to her pie. "So you can cook without poison," says Emma, before taking a bite. The warm, gooey apples seep along her tongue as the buttery crust crunches between her teeth, both an amazing contrast to the cool slipperiness of the ice cream.

Dammit. It's delicious.

"This is actually what we call baking," says Regina.

Emma's eyes shoot up to glare at the other woman before she remembers she isn't supposed to look at her, can't look at her. The dot of ice cream lingers on Regina's mouth, widening a little as her lips twist into a victorious smile.

Emma rolls her eyes, partly to prove to herself she can still look away – relieved when she can. "Great. Fine. So come tomorrow night and show off your culinary knowledge."

Looking back at her plate, she stuffs another mouthful into her face to give Regina time to think over her response. Chews and chews and chews into the silence. Swallows. Regina is still silent.

Emma takes a moment to center herself. Breathes out – whatever the hell is wrong with her this evening – and inhales her focus. Why she came here tonight. So, the apology itself isn't going to happen – she can still make amends. Still offer them both a second chance.

Emma lifts her chin, although now Regina isn't meeting _her_ eyes, focusing instead on her fork as she pushes it into her heap of ice cream without eating any. The white seeps out between the tines, cascading in layers that immediately melt back into one another. The speck on her lip, thank God, is finally gone.

"Henry says you make a mean lasagna," Emma offers. "Great dish to bring to a potluck."

"Assuming the dish isn't promptly thrown in my face," Regina mutters.

"I won't let that happen," vows Emma, before she knows she's vowing it.

Regina's hand stills. "Forgive me, Miss Swan, if I hesitate to believe that you can take on an entire town's wrath single-handedly."

"News flash," says Emma, "but I actually have two hands."

Regina rolls her eyes. Resumes mushing up the remains of her dessert with her fork, making those irritating scraping sounds that Emma's been working so hard to avoid.

"Henry wants you to change," says Emma. "And he believes you can."

Regina's eyes find hers across the table. Her mouth sneers, but her eyes are wide with a vulnerability Emma's never seen. "And what do you believe, Miss Swan?"

The air, still warm with the aroma of the fresh pie, thickens. Clots inside Emma's lungs. Regina's fork continues scraping along her plate, the screeches adding to the heaviness and reverberating inside Emma's skull.

Desperate to make the noises stop – to make the air breathable again – Emma reaches across the kitchen island and puts her hand atop Regina's, fingers curling over the other woman's restless fist.

The noises cease. They are left in a vacuum without any sound. The air is breathable again, shifting again, faster than Emma remembers. Makes the edges of her vision blur, the way they do when she's been staring too long at moving water while standing on land.

Emma lets go of Regina's hand. Wants to make some quip about Regina never learning table manners as a child, but can't think of anything clever, or that wouldn't potentially dredge up awful memories of growing up under Cora's oppressive thumb.

"I believe," says Emma, "that a parent's love is one of the most powerful things in the world. It's up to you how you use that power – but you showed today that you can use it for good. Even at the cost of hurting yourself."

Something flickers through Regina's gaze – surprise? Gratitude?

"But love doesn't always have to lead to hurt." It's a lesson Emma herself is still struggling to believe. They're alike in this way, too. "And going to dinner tomorrow night might help prove that. To everyone."

Slowly, Regina nods. "I'll be there."

Emma smiles. "Henry'll be thrilled."

Regina mirrors the smile. Emma's cheeks warm again, and this time she lets them.

"Thank you," says Regina.

They both look away at the same moment, as if the time limit upon genuine emotions has suddenly run out.

"You should finish your pie," says Regina. "It's rude to not finish your dessert."

"You're one to talk," retorts Emma, looking at Regina's mess of melted ice cream and pie debris.

" _I'm_ not the one who invited myself over here," says Regina.

"It's just as sinful to waste food," snaps back Emma.

One corner of Regina's mouth lifts. She raises a forkful of dessert in another salute. This time it's not a blush creeping along her cheeks that Emma finds herself fighting, but chills slithering down her spine.

"Then, Miss Swan," Regina whispers, "I suppose we shall be sinners together."

To prove a point – though she's not sure exactly what point – Emma finishes the rest of her plate in two heaping swallows. She lifts the empty plate off the table as if it is her prized trophy.

"Well done," says Regina, who now eats with slow, ladylike refinement. "Did you enjoy it?"

"It was pretty good," says Emma, "but Sara Lee could give you a run for your money."

Regina rolls her eyes, but seems to deem this unworthy of a response.

Truth be told, it was actually the best pie Emma's ever eaten – to hell with Sara Lee. Now Emma'll never be able to enjoy a pie from a run-down diner or frozen aisle ever again. Now Emma'll be hard pressed to resist eating a second slice tonight. Or the whole damn thing.

Her eyes follow the curl of Regina's wrist as the mayor lifts her dainty forkful to her mouth, the minute flutter of dark lashes as she blinks. The pout of her lips as she savors the dessert in a way that Emma never will be able to.

Now Emma's not sure if she'll ever be full.


	2. A Cure for Sleepless Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Christmas and early New Year. I hope you enjoy this late/early holiday gift. =)

Story #2: "A Cure for Sleepless Nights"

Takes place sometime after episode 3x2, when Emma admits that she feels like an orphan and unlocks Pan's map, and before 3x6, when Regina breaks away from the Neverland rescue party to join up with Gold.

* * *

Emma thinks she's the only one lying awake during these long nights in Neverland. Regina knows that Emma thinks this because Regina's sure the sheriff wouldn't make such a racket each night if aware that she wasn't the motley group's only insomniac.

To her credit, Emma does her best to be quiet. But Regina's insomnia has always made her hypersensitive to noise. In her early days with Henry, as she lay restless in bed trying to lure sleep, she would be painfully attuned to his every cough, every sniffle, every sigh. As Regina learned back then – surrounded by the comforts of silk pillowcases and electric blankets, but unable to get comfortable – sleep enjoys being the most elusive towards those who desire it most.

She's relearning it again now – neck muscles cramped up on the makeshift pillow of her suit jacket – as Emma paces for what must be the millionth time the perimeter of their camp. Despite how Emma walks with the quiet toe-heel step of those well-versed in stealth, the dirt still murmurs a protesting _thud_ with her every footfall, and an occasional leaf still crunches beneath her boots. The cacophony amplifies when Emma's feet near Regina's corner of the camp, and when they do, Regina can hear Emma's breathing, too, inhales that wheeze in her efforts to keep them shallow.

Regina has to clench her jaw to keep herself from – well, who knows what she'd do in this state, inflamed and raw from her own sleepless nights . . . curse the stupid woman to go dangle from a tree, perhaps, rather than continue on with all this fidgeting . . . or, even better, she could make Emma turn _into_ a tree. . . . Emma's footfalls grow softer as she paces away, but still not soft enough, still obscenely loud as they kick up dirt clods, break twigs, crumble dying foliage, and Regina lets herself be lulled by the fantasy . . . trees aren't able to pace anywhere . . . or breathe all over the place . . . or repeatedly delay the mission of finding Regina's son with their refusal to let Regina use magic . . .

When Emma's boots cease to trample the earth, Regina wonders if she's cast the spell accidentally – if, in her exhausted state, her emotions have overpowered everything else . . . well, Regina reasons with a long sigh, relaxing her neck muscles and loosening her jaw, she can easily turn Emma back to her human form in the morning . . . it wouldn't hurt anyone to have Emma spend one night as a tree . . . one silent, restful night . . .

Then Regina hears muffled, hitching breaths, as if someone is trying to stifle their sobs. The kind of sounds Regina used to make after Daniel's death, hiding her tears from her mother in the loneliest hours of the night; or as the new bride to King Leopold, when she would wait in dread inside her bedchambers for him to summon her to his quarters; or just months ago, when she had thought Henry no longer loved her, when she feared she'd driven him away forever with her false insistence that he needed psychiatric help . . .

The kind of sounds that, if someone had told Regina she'd one day hear her nemesis make, she would have expected to rejoice. She would not have expected to find her blood running cold, despite the heat of the jungle. Or to lose sensation in her fingers as they turned icy and numb. Or to need to clench her jaw once again – no longer to prevent curses leaving her lips, but instead to repress chattering teeth.

When Regina's jaw finally relaxes, the only one she's cursing is herself. Her arms push her into an upright position, then her legs bring her stumbling up to her feet. Damn her weakness and stupidity. She should have never allowed the Charmings' overly-in-your-face-inquisitively-caring-nature to rub off on her.

But this is what Henry would want her to do. This is the mother he wants her to be. The person she used to be. The one who used to be inquisitively caring, too, once upon a time, before that quality reaped upon her only heartache and she walled off that trait from everyone, including herself.

Regina unballs her suit jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles with magic, then fits her arms inside. Finds her fingertips still flushed white, devoid of blood, even when she tries to magic them back to normal.

She rolls her jaw around, resisting the urge to clench it again, and tucks her fingers against the skin of her shoulders, hoping the heat of her body combined with the suit's shoulder pads will return sensation to them. It probably looks as if she's putting herself in a strange sort of restraining hold, or as if she is physically binding herself together. As if she is weak.

But it doesn't matter, Regina tells herself, as she picks her way towards the muffled cries. Emma's vision will be too blurry with unshed waterworks, eyelids too puffed up with irritated tear ducts, to notice whether Regina looks weak or not.

Emma's seated atop a giant tree root curling out from the ground like a petrified tentacle. She's made herself as small as possible by bowing her spine over her legs, bare arms clamped against the sides of her thighs. Face concealed inside the hollows of her palms. Long blonde hair all over the place, with the ends trailing into the dirt.

Regina hesitates, trying to figure out how to alert Emma to her presence without startling her. She settles on positioning a sizeable twig beneath her boot and crunching it as softly as possible – but Emma still jolts, shoulders seizing around her neck as she twists her head up from her hands.

Regina thinks she should apologize, but Regina does not apologize, so instead she offers, "Good evening, Miss Swan."

The formal greeting rings with unintentional sarcasm, punctuated only by Emma's rapid inhales as she tries to stop crying. Regina tucks her fingers deeper into the false protection of her suit jacket.

"Hi." Emma scrubs at the smeared tear tracks and mascara on her face. Succeeds only in turning her cheeks red and making herself look even more of a mess. "I-I thought I was the only one awake."

Regina shakes her head.

"Oh." Emma makes another pointless attempt at hiding her distress: shaking her fingers through the roots of her hair as if to smooth out the part, but managing instead to create a halo of frizz. "Did I w-wake you?"

"I've been awake, too, here." Regina decides to omit the fact that Emma has certainly not helped her fall or stay asleep.

"Every night?"

Somehow admitting it aloud would be too much. So instead Regina magically dusts off the exposed tree root before taking a seat next to Emma.

Emma's eyebrows raise and Regina anticipates some sort of quip about queens deigning to sit upon grime, but it doesn't come. Emma's eyes sweep over Regina's features, as if trying to find an answer in the planes of her face. Regina belatedly realizes that she's seated herself far too close to Emma – she should not be able to feel the press of Emma's thigh against her own, or smell Emma's dry shampoo coupled with something like nutmeg – but her mother's voice roils through her head again, demanding that Regina _never show weakness_. So instead of scooting away as she longs to, Regina makes herself as calmly rooted to the spot as the very tree she sits upon.

"Do you – hear them too?" asks Emma.

Regina's not sure what she expected Emma to say next, but it wasn't that. "What?"

"Oh," says Emma, more to herself, dabbing at her nose with some moss. "Guess it's just me. Assumed it was, already, but then you . . ."

Instead of finishing the thought, Emma throws the moss onto the ground and grinds it into the dirt with the toe of her boot. Perhaps determined to demolish it more thoroughly than she could the traces of her tears.

"What are you hearing?" asks Regina, not totally sure if she wants the answer. She isn't prepared to deal with an Emma who's not only upset, but delusional, too.

"Who," corrects Emma. "I hear the Lost Boys. All night. Every night."

"Hear them what?" says Regina.

Emma cradles her elbows in her palms. "Crying."

Regina feels her eyebrows compress in surprise, then something else – something that creates a dull pain behind her eyes like the start of a migraine. She's not used to thinking of the Lost Boys as, well, boys. She sees them as obstacles, as Pan's accomplices. As things to be destroyed should they for even a breath threaten Henry's safety. She's not used to thinking of the Lost Boys as children whose safety might be threatened, too.

Regina tilts her head, straining to hear the cries. But all she hears are Emma's continued attempts at stamping down her own sobs and the whispering motions of the Shadow's flight somewhere in the distance.

"I'm not crazy," says Emma, although Regina no longer thinks she is. "I do hear them. Pan found me up and about, that first night, trying to figure out what I was hearing . . . back when he gave me the map . . . he didn't seem surprised that I was the only one who could hear them. Implied that none of you could."

Emma looks down at her lap and picks at the seam of her jeans. Her hair shifts with the movement, curtaining around the sides of her face. The ends dance around Emma's shoulders and Regina notices some dirt trapped in the tresses, likely gathered when Emma was hunched over.

"I guess I can hear them for the same reason he wanted me to have the map," says Emma. "The orphan thing. I mean, I know you don't have your parents now, either – and my parents have lost their parents, too – and I _do_ have them now – but . . ."

"But it's different when you're an adult," Regina finishes the thought for her.

Emma makes a sound that doesn't quite resemble a word and brings one hand up to her face to chew on her nails. Henry does that too, when he's deep in nervous thought, and Regina's tempted for a minute to bat Emma's hand and playfully threaten to paint her nails with jalapeños, the way she does with Henry – but she isn't Emma's mother, and meanwhile her own son is out there motherless, alone save for Pan and his Lost Boys – and whether the Lost Boys deserve to be considered children or not, Henry is still alone in a way they are not . . .

"Do you hear Henry's cries, too?" Regina whispers.

"I can't really . . ." She hears Emma swallow. "I don't think I can distinguish him from all the . . ."

Heat snarls in Regina's stomach, claws up her chest. "Maybe you could if you'd always been there to comfort him when he cried." If Regina could hear the crying, she could tell Henry apart from the others – she knows she could. Instead Emma has this amazing ability that – just like with all that magical power tremoring inside her, waiting to be mastered and released – she's unable to make use of.

She expects Emma to fight back, because although Emma may not always have been Henry's mother, she has always matched Regina battle for battle.

Instead Emma looks up at Regina, eyes brimming with tears she doesn't try to hide this time. One teardrop escapes from the innermost corner of her eye and traces along her skin. Comes to rest in the crevice between her nostril and upper lip.

Without a fight to latch onto, Regina's anger has no wick to ignite, no forest to raze. She's left confused, unsated – guilty.

She rubs her numb fingers against her skin, marveling at how Emma seems immune to the cold. That tank top material looks thinner than Regina's camisole, and Emma's arms are so lean as to barely have enough fat to keep her warm . . .

Regina brings herself back to reality by biting down on the inside of her own cheek.

"Maybe you didn't want Henry, back then," she says, "but I wanted him too much."

"Can you want a child too much?" asks Emma, and one darting look in the savior's direction shows that the question is genuine, shining in her eyes brighter than her tears. "I would've given anything to be wanted at all by a family."

"The wanting can be too much, yes," says Regina. "It leaves you feeling trapped. I'm sure that's why Henry came to find you in the first place . . . I wanted to do the same when I was younger. Break free from my mother's overwhelming embrace." She curls her fingers around her neck in imitation of a necklace, or perhaps a noose. "And, even though I'd vowed to be a different kind of mother . . . I smothered Henry with that want."

Elbows braced on her knees, Emma leans forward to peer more closely into Regina's face. "That wanting was what you understood as love – what you'd learned from her. You know better now – but you did the best you could then. And given what a great kid Henry was even before I'd shown up, you did pretty damn well."

Regina grimaces and shakes her head. How is it that her intention of offering Emma some measure of comfort has so colossally backfired and reversed, so that now Emma is the one attempting to comfort _her_? That's the problem with heroes: they're always so busy trying to outdo everyone around them with their own fucking goodness.

Perhaps sensing Regina's discomfort, Emma straightens her spine as best she can while sitting on a tree root, and drawls with her familiar dry humor, "So, if the Lost Boys' cries aren't keeping you up, what is? All my stomping around?"

Regina has been saving up a thousand witticisms during these long sleepless nights, comparing Emma's noisiness to a variety of unpleasantries from elephant stampedes to cicada mating calls – but instead of spilling any of these choice barbs, she finds herself hesitating.

"Oh," says Emma, reading the silence. "Sorry. I didn't think I was being that loud."

"I wouldn't be sleeping well anyway," says Regina, which is true. "There's too much to . . . sort through and think about." Her eyes find the Charmings, and she regards their sleeping forms with a strange twinging jealousy. "A problem your parents clearly don't have."

Emma snorts a laugh. "No. I don't think they've ever lost sleep to endless worries, or fears . . ."

"Or self-loathing, or hatred . . ."

"Or loneliness, or insecurity . . ."

"Idealists are immune to insomnia," Regina concludes. "If only we could bottle up perennial, sickening optimism and sell it as a cure for sleeplessness."

"Nobody'd buy any sort of sleep-related 'cure' from you," Emma says.

The return to this familiar dynamic makes Regina give a low hum of laughter. "On the contrary – I should be considered an expert on sleep, as well as the lack of it, by now. We wouldn't be able to keep shelves stocked fast enough."

Emma tips her head side to side, as if considering. "As long as our cure didn't smell like apples."

Regina's on the verge of retaliating when Emma's escaped tear, jarred by her movement, shifts from the crevice by her nose and trails into the gap between her lips. Emma flicks it away with her tongue before speaking, but it takes a heartbeat for Regina's brain to catch up with her ears.

". . . try to hold onto my parents' unwavering belief that this's all going to work out in the end," Emma's saying, solemn again, "but it's hard to just turn off the worrying, or the knowledge that sometimes things just don't . . . go exactly the way you want them to . . ." Her voices quivers at the end with the strain of repressing a fresh sob.

"I know," says Regina. "But Henry will be – "

She cuts herself off when she realizes that Emma spoke at the exact same time – and started to say the exact same thing. That they both started to reassure one another of their son's safety despite their struggles to believe it.

They stare at each other, Emma's mouth quirking into a lopsided grin of bleak amusement and compassion and hope – an expression Regina wants to imitate, but doesn't know how. Not now, or ever.

Regina looks away from Emma and slips her hands away from her shoulders, flexing her fingers experimentally. They are, at least, no longer white and numb.

"Sometimes I'd give anything to do it all over again," says Emma, a confession so quiet Regina isn't sure it's meant for her. "To not let Henry go, I mean. To not do exactly what my parents did to me – because even if they and I did it for good reasons, that doesn't . . ."

Regina glances at Emma out of her peripheral vision, but Emma's resumed chewing on her nails and does not seem able to complete the sentence. Emma's hair shifts as she rests her elbows on her knees and the ends of her locks sway. The dirt trapped in the blonde tresses winks.

Regina's hand moves to catch Emma's hair between her fingertips. They both watch her fingers free the strands of the dirt. Watch the dirt spiral in the air, down, down, down, until it returns to its home upon the forest floor.

"Maybe you had to let Henry go then," says Regina, "so that you could become a good mother to him later. In the here and now."

Did they lean closer to one another? She doesn't recall shifting forward, but she also doesn't think before that she could see every freckle sprayed across Emma's nose, every hair composing her eyebrows. Every teardrop tangled in Emma's eyelashes.

"Thank you," Emma whispers back.

Far too late, Regina remembers that Emma's hair is still between her fingers – as soft as silk, as cool as water . . .

As wrong as magicking someone back from the dead.

And how can it ever be anything but wrong? Unlike her parents' goodness, Emma's isn't for show. And unlike Regina's goodness, Emma's isn't tarnished and mottled, despite how she too has seen how cruel the world can be.

Emma's goodness is the real deal in every way, and Regina won't allow herself to blacken Emma's heart. The way that Regina knows she _would_ blacken Emma's heart, inevitably, should they ever regard each other with more than companionable tolerance. With Henry as the sole exception, Regina taints everyone in her life with evil. Like a perverse King Midas: fated to have everything she touches wither into a darkened, warped imitation of itself.

Regina drops Emma's hair and returns her icy fingers to the senseless warmth beneath her shoulder pads. With the renewal of the cold comes an increase in volume, too, and the far away _whoosh_ es of the Shadow rev loudly in her ears.

Regina rises from the tree root into a standing position. She feels better, breathes easier, with this increase in blood circulation. "You should try and sleep. You need to be rested for – whenever we track down Pan." She sounds more like a mother than she means to, and expects Emma to balk at the parental tone.

But Emma once again ignores Regina's expectations that she'll rear up fighting and nods, shoulders slumping. "I know I should. I just . . . I'm not sure if I can."

"You can," says Regina. If it were Snow saying this, the words would ring with optimism. But on Regina's tongue, the words puncture the air.

Emma's head curls into her shoulders. "Okay. Just give me a sec." Her tresses fan down either side of her body, exposing the back of her neck. The round bone below her skull looks extraordinarily prominent against the curve of her throat, the pale vulnerable skin. Her bare shoulder blades angled out like two broken wings.

It all awakens something akin to Regina's mothering instincts, but distinct. Something with that same urge to protect, but a different sort of warmth.

Before she has time to regret it, Regina says, "Come on, Emma. I'll watch over you while you fall asleep."

The nub and shoulder blades disappear from view as Emma's head surfaces from the hunch of her shoulders. "But who'll watch over you?"

Regina rolls her eyes, because she doesn't trust her eyes not to prickle with tears if she doesn't give them something else to do. "I'm the Evil Queen, not the savior. I don't need anyone watching over me."

Suddenly Emma's on her feet too, the long-absent fire blazing at last in her eyes. "And I do?"

But just as Emma did not rise to meet Regina's anger earlier, Regina does not rise to meet hers. "I didn't make the offer out of necessity."

Emma shoves her hair out of her face, then stops abruptly, looking away from Regina, and crosses her arms. Takes a minute to breathe.

"I think I'm okay now," says Emma, meeting her eyes again. "The cries aren't . . . as bad now. I think the Lost Boys have drifted off. But – thanks."

Emma rubs at a dried tear-track, smearing her mascara across her cheekbone like warpaint. Stupid woman. It would be so easy to fix her mess of tears and makeup with magic, if only Emma could learn to control her power. Or if only Emma would allow Regina to use magic to fix her mess – if only Regina would be permitted to graze her fingertips along Emma's skin and siphon up the crumbled bits of mascara, ease the inflammation in her eyelids, expose the faint freckles beneath the smudged makeup . . .

But Emma would allow that no more than she would allow Regina to watch over her while she sleeps. Regina knows that without voicing the question – and Regina also knows, without knowing why, that she could not bear this second refusal, too.

"No need to thank me," says Regina. "We should both try and sleep."

"Okay," Emma agrees.

And so they both return to their cots. Regina removes her suit jacket and fashions it back into a pillow. Emma shakes out the ratty sheet she's using as a blanket. Like children at a sleepover, anxious not to be the first to fall asleep, they dart periodic glances at one another as they try to get comfortable against the unyielding jungle floor.

"Goodnight, Miss Swan," says Regina.

Does Emma notice the formal return to her surname? Is that why she rolls over to face away from Regina? Or is that simply her more comfortable sleeping angle?

"Goodnight," says Emma.

Regina rolls onto her side, too, turning away from their campsite and Emma and all of these thoughts that she does not care about.

For what little remains of the night, sleep continues not to come quietly. But Regina does manage to catch a few fleeting moments of rest.

And during these fitful bouts of sleep, in her dreams, Emma allows Regina to watch over her while she falls asleep, and Regina allows herself to admit that she enjoys watching over Emma. In her dreams, Regina kneels beside Emma's cot, magicking her face clean of makeup and pain. In her dreams, instead of using her own elbow as her pillow, Emma rests her head against Regina's thighs. In her dreams, Regina sings a lullaby that used to help Henry fall asleep, ghosting her fingers through Emma's hair in soothingly repetitive strokes. In her dreams, instead of Regina's chest tightening with the fear that this is wrong, all wrong, she feels herself expanding with warmth and hope, and she no longer has to claim that she hates both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are love.


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